


Wonder Woman:  A Woman Scorned

by flayrith



Category: Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flayrith/pseuds/flayrith
Summary: The final episode to the beginning of Diana's story.   She has defeated Ares; ended the Great War; and found her strength lies not in the expectations of others; but of what one knows of herself.  Of course what one expects can only be based upon what one knows.Reunited with Steve, Diana believes she has fulfilled her purpose and mankind will once again be fair and kind and good.  Yet she has much to learn.  Unexpectedly returned from Hell back to the world of man, Diana and Steve find this world a different place than the one they had left; and the distinction  between Heroes; and Villains; and Gods; is not so simple.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

“ _Italia!”_

Around them was a city in ruins. But the noises of traffic and people signaled the city had neither been abandoned nor seemed to be recovering from the Great War; the damage had not been caused by bombs or gunfire but was more due to time. Steve Trevor recognized landmarks from photographs and travel posters: The Arch of Constantine; the great Roman Coliseum; ancient sites under excavation and beyond, glinting in the sun, the Dome of St. Peters. Steve knew this was Rome; but how he and Diana were here, unknown miles and lifetimes away from the literal Hell from which they'd emerged, he couldn't guess. It had something to do, he was certain, with the Gods and Goddesses he'd never believed in...until he met some of them, himself. And once you're dealing with Gods and Goddesses, he'd come to understand, all bets were off the table.

The last he remembered was Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, had offered to deliver the two of them; Steve and Diana; from Hades, the Realm of the Dead: in reward for Diana fulfilling her commitment to save Steve from a death she believed was only due to her arrogance and self-certainty; and in order that Persephone could demonstrate to Hades – the God of the Dead - while she might be his wife, she's not under his control. The Goddess had promised to return them to Themyscira, to reunite Diana with her mother and allow Steve to remain with Diana, although by doing so he'd have to find a way to explain why one man should be allowed to live in a society consisting only of women. Steve had been transported by the gods once before, when Athena had taken him from the midst of an exploding German bomber he'd stolen so its cargo of deadly gas would kill only him while saving incalculable thousands of others, so when the transition between the Underworld and Themyscira was not as smooth as he'd known, he only took that as a variation between distance or location or abilities of the various gods. But almost immediately, Diana knew something was wrong. While she had not before experienced the Gods transport, she did perceive the change between the gentle urging of Persephone and a more ragged and malicious transition that felt driven more by anger and contempt than compassion. Uneasy but powerless to determine her own direction; understanding, for the first time, how mortals can be overwhelmed and without direction; she did not yet know that the journey begun for them by Persephone, the gentlest of all Gods; had been overtaken by Hera who, in her jealously and contempt, sought to undermine Diana and all she had learned was good and just and true; Hera, wife of Zeus, who in her obsession and jealously sought to destroy the Daughter of Hippolita, Queen of the Amazons, even if that meant destroying all mankind in the process.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

The journey left them standing confused and disoriented in a city neither had ever seen; surrounded by a crowd cheering 'Il Duce!' as a mob of men raced toward them, barely-controlled menace in their movements and impassioned desire in their eyes.

Steve prepared for the worst, steadying himself and raising his fists even though he'd never been much of a fist-and-cuffs fighter. Since he'd volunteered for the Army - when was that, he thought; two years ago? - although in reality he'd left his previous life behind weeks earlier when his best friend was killed in an accident Steve could have prevented; his mother died from an illness Steve didn't even understand; and in a final twist, he was abandoned by his fiancée who said she no longer recognized the man Steve had become. Since then he'd fought in and witnessed the end of the Great War; nearly been killed more times than he could count and apparently had at one point died and been sent to Hell where he was judged worthy of returning to the world of the living, if only to make right all the mistakes he'd made while not being told what he could do, exactly, to change things that had already happened. In the past months he'd found a new family of misfits and un-wanteds and the lost; and most important of all, had _been_ found by Diana who despite how twisted everything else had become, balanced everything.

“Steve, why did the Great Goddess Persephone send us to this place? Who are these men; why to they form to attack? What enemy do they believe us to be?”

Diana positioned herself at a slight angle alongside Steve, Lasso of Hestia at her side, Sword of Athena still in its sheath and Shield of Zeus strapped to her back. She scanned three directions at once, surveying the terrain and surroundings and forming plans of defense and attack; estimating the purposes of these aggressors, noting their apparent strengths and weaknesses; preparing to encounter whatever battle may arise. While she was, herself, a child of the Gods, if what Ares had told her was to be believed; she couldn't see behind her and would have to rely on Steve to defend that position from attack. She knew, from years of training with Antiope and countless hours sharpening her skills, any defense is best obtained by a group of three, but for now she'd have to rely on Steve who'd proven himself a capable soldier, yet certainly no Amazon.

“ _Italia! La Patria!"_ the men cried separately and in unison, the group now only a few yards away, close enough to see all were dressed in grey shirt and black pants and polished boots, daggers strapped to their belts. Some wore short capes and others were dressed in light jackets in what appeared to be a military uniform but unlike any uniform Steve or Diana had ever seen. Diana turned to face the bulk of the crowd and noticed, just as the group closed in on them, she and Steve were standing beneath the illustration of a woman painted ten feet tall on the building beside them. Armored and gowned and raven-haired, she stood amid lush, garden-like surroundings, a banner of green and white and red fluttering in the background while she gazed defiantly into the distance, her expression that of one prepared to defend all that was important to her while cherishing, through her strength, there was no need to fight unless attacked. For a moment, Diana believed it was the image of one of her sisters; that the woman in the image was a fellow Amazon.

The men, joined by others who had been standing nearby on sidewalks and had emerged from doorways, reached and grasped at Diana, each more eager than another. Steve swung out at three of them, but the men only ducked away and laughed, enveloping him in the crowd until he couldn't move his arms. Four; or six; or more men lifted Diana onto their shoulders, wildly exclaiming at the image of the eagle on her shield, the sculpture of her sword hilt, and, Steve noticed, a few covering her thighs with their cloaks but only after they had had a good look for themselves.

As the crowd approached and grew larger, Diana had begun to raise and cross her arms, but before she was able to unleash the powers she'd only recently found she possessed, numerous hands shoved and pulled at her, grabbing her arms and legs and body. This, she thought, was like the eternal grasping of the undead that had reached toward her in Hades; the formless entities who at first seemed to attack, but were only desperately seeking understanding. As she had felt from the imprisoned masses of the Underworld, Diana did not sense anger or fear from these men, but exultation. She allowed herself to be carried away; there was no need to defend herself, or Steve. Not yet.

“ _Italia!”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The group of men; some cheering, others singing, none quiet; pushed their way toward the crowd. Diana, supported by hands and shoulders at her legs and back and arms, some hands placed where a man's hands should not be, was carried aloft and in the lead; behind, trapped and driven along by the mass, Steve called out but his voice was unheard or unnoticed.

"Che dire di questa 'Diana', compagno?" a stranger slapped Steve on the back. "Non vedi che è I'Italia, la nostra padrona?" _[_ _who is this 'Diana', comrade? can't you see it's Italy, our mistress?]_

"I...don't speak your...language." Steve sputtered as he was pushed from one side and elbowed at the other. "I am an...AMERICAN. From America." He pointed to himself and smiled, resulting in the stranger tapping him briskly on the chest.

"Ah! Yes, it does the heart good! For one of America to see the light of La Patria! _'La Patria!'_ " he joined his companions in unison.

"Then you...speak English?" Steve pushed away two men, not much older than boys; who had stepped between him and the stranger; one of the boys spun back on his heel, his eyes intense and unsettled, but with one glance at Steve grinned defiantly and turned away.

"A bit here, a bit there. Before the war, my cousin and I travel to New York; we are told of many jobs, great opportunities, in America every man is the same. But all we find are the rich spitting on the poor. Then, when defending our country from the filthy Austrians, I work with the English Army as a translator. My services they are happy to receive, but to anyone who is not English, they treat badly. I spit on them all. But Il Duce! - he makes opportunity for Italy, opportunity for all! And now, he brings us our Italia!

The stranger, in his early-30's, Steve thought; clean-cut and earnest, looking much like anyone Steve had seen from Times Square to a British trench; grinned and laughed and as he spoke, waving his hands about, ignoring the press of the crowd and the many other hands articulating sentences words could not.

"Ah, but we know she is only an actress; a woman in the image of Italia, our benefactress, engaged for our enjoyment. She could not be a true goddess, no? But what a woman!" He slapped Steve on the shoulder in complicity; "Have you ever seen such a woman?"

"Uh, sure" Steve muttered. "Then this is some sort of...festival?"

"Today, Il Duce addresses the people!" The stranger pointed to a third-story balcony decorated in red and green bunting, a large bundle of sticks wrapped around an ax standing at each corner. Without realizing how fast the crowd had been moving, they had progressed down the avenue and were approaching a modern building set between the ruins of an ancient, curved auditorium; a medieval church; and a row of apartment buildings that were neither new nor old. Further along, a massive white building, appearing to be part monument and part extravagance, dominated the block. The stranger pointed to images painted on walls and broadsides pasted to fences, each highlighting a muscular, balding man, eyes squinting in determination and chin thrust forward, engaged in a variety of activities: Arms spread wide, surrounded by admirers; posed beneath an Italian flag; holding a baby who looked shocked with children at his feet who looked uncomfortable; and in two images, shirtless, hefting a pickax and harvesting wheat.

"This 'Il Duce'...Steve began.

"Il Duce is all! Il Duce is the Father!" The man affirmed. "But," he came close to Steve's ear, "Il Duce is not as easy to look at as is this Italia!"

"Yeah, well, _'Italias'_ with me." Steve established, drawing himself as tall as possible, seeing that, beyond the crowd, Diana had been lifted onto a podium decorated in purple, red and green, flags fluttering from all four corners and in a row along the back; a chair quickly painted gold centered on an elevated platform while around the stage were placed six identical-looking men dressed in black leather jackets, two others urging her to the chair. The crowd waved and called out _'Italia!' 'Bellona'_ ;tossing flowers at her feet while young girls approached as closely as possible and knelt, gazing at the 'goddess' sitting before them.

"Diana!" Steve called out.

"Steve! Steve!" Diana replied, waving him forward as the two nearest men took their position on either side of Diana's fabricated throne.

"Nice talking to you." Steve blurted to the stranger as he began pushing his way through the crowd. "Good luck with that _'Duce'_ and everything."

Old women elbowed him and cursed and young men laughed and shoved and children stepped on his toes and old men stood aside, but Steve ultimately found the front of the mass and, pushed from behind as much as he urged himself forward, squeezed the final few feet until he found himself at the base of the impromptu platform.

"Diana! Are you OK?" He noticed Diana's hair was tousled and her skirt creased but her sword and shield were still in place at her back, and her lasso at her side. She looked disheveled and wary, but unharmed. He chided himself for being separated from her; for allowing a group of men to carry her away. How would she ever know to depend on him, if he hadn't even been able to stay next to her? Not, he remembered, that Diana _needed_ anyone to protect her.

"I'm sorry, the crowd got between us and..." he placed one foot on the platform and was immediately blocked by two guards, the resolve in their eyes as black as their clothing.

"Stai lontano, fratello." _[_ _stay away, brother]_

"Sorry, I don't speak Italian. I'm an AMERICAN" he pronounced more loudly than necessary. "She and I are together." He gestured between himself and Diana. "Italia's...with ME. Together."

The men looked at Steve as if he were unworthy to consider, each grabbing him by one arm and forcing him back.

"Hoc est amicus, meus. Dimittite eum solus." Diana stated in a tone determinate and unyielding yet somehow remaining friendly, as only she could. "Et nos unum sumus." _[he is my friend. leave him alone. and we are together]_

The two men blocking Steve's path stepped aside but rather than pushing him away kept their grasp on his arms and helped him onto the platform, a step of not more than ten inches. They brushed his shoulders, gently directed him toward Diana's side and returned to their posts.

"What was that all about? Diana, you speak Italian?"

"I speak in Latin. They appear to understand; to understand sufficiently. I have never before heard this 'Italian', nor of a land where it is spoken."

"I'd say we're in Rome; but I don't know _when_. It's not 1918, at least not as far as I can see. So much for your goddesses."

"Do not be disrespectful of the Gods, Steve Trevor. Something has occurred which has taken us from our intended journey, and brought us here." She smiled and acknowledged those cheering her; she had not felt such adoration since she was a young girl and accompanied her mother, Hippolyota, Queen of the Amazons, on a tour of Themiscyra, visiting every one of her subjects. "If this is Rome, then all should speak Latin. Have the Legions of Rome conquered this 'Italy'?"

"It's all one country; one land; now. It's all Italy. The Romans are gone."

"I see. That explains the terrible war that destroyed their structures."

"And this ' _Il Duce_ ' must be their leader. Everyone seems to love him." Steve added, looking around at the crowd which in a few minutes had grown in size and intensity. "Supposed to improving the country, improving everyone's lives. If the posters are any indication, he's certainly been _busy_."

"How do you know this?" Diana questioned, surprise and affront in her voice. "You have never before been in this place, at this time."

"Some guy in the crowd was talking to me. Says today this ' _Il Duce'_ is going to make a speech, that's why everyone's here. They think you're ' _Italia'_ , their princess," Steve teased.

"I am a princess."

"Uh, yeah. Forgot."

"How did you understand this ' _guy_ '? You speak neither Latin, nor 'Italian'."

"Guy spoke English. Said he'd spent some time in New York."

"I have heard much of this new ' _York_ '. One day I must travel there."

"I don't know if you'd like it. It's not for everybody."

Almost instantly, silence replaced discord and the crowd, individuals moving as one, abandoned their conversations and quieted their children and looked upward, at the building just to the right of Diana's stage, toward a third-story window where the man prominent on nearly every broadside and poster had emerged, chin thrust forward, wearing a crisp grey suit too tight in some areas and too loose in others but with a row of military ribbons on his chest and small-brimmed felt hat Steve had only ever before seen on mountaineers or small boys. Shorter and more stocky that his idolized images, 'Il Duce' raised his arms in triumph or recognition, causing the crowd to cheer with even more passion.

"Looks like you've been upstaged" Steve quipped to Diana, who had stood to see this figure for herself. "People love him even more than their 'Italia'."

To her left, midway in the crowd, Diana noticed one person neither cheered nor admired, but stared nervously, an object in his hand glinting in the sunlight. In a voice more forceful than any of those around him, he yelled something Diana could not understand and raised his gun to the balcony, taking one shot without aiming; immediately followed by another, more deliberate; and with the third would have hit his target if he'd not been snatched into the air and thrown to the ground, coiled helplessly in the Lasso of Hestia as the crowd, illuminated by the Lasso's golden glow, stood apart, murmuring among themselves. As if from nowhere eight or more black-clothed men surrounded the assailant who was writhing on the ground in pain, stuttering something in a language Diana had never before heard.

"Diana! Why did you get involved? We don't know who these people are, or even understand the language. We don't know what problem some people might have with this 'Duce'; as far as we know, he might deserve to be shot."

"I know someone was being attacked, and could have been murdered" Diana affirmed, drawing back her lasso and replacing it at her side. "Does not this leader deserve to be heard, if there are so many who admire him? If he speaks of great changes, as you say, perhaps there are those who fear his message. I have saved a man's life. That is nothing to question."

In the distance, the black-shirts tied the assailant's hands and led him away, quickly forgotten. Within the crowd, the low murmur gathered into a sustained drone, rose to a cry and blared into chaos, hats and bouquets tossed indiscriminately into the air while shouts of _'Il Duce'_ roared, now equally mixed with calls of _'Italia'; 'Bellona_ '; and _'La Patria'_. But the Italia the crowd was venerating was no longer the illusion of a mythical symbol but the wondrous woman standing before them. From the third-story balcony Benito Mussolini; 'Il Duce'; looked down upon the people and the woman they were idolizing. Now, he realized, there was no point in giving his speech; in the minds of the people, simply by being at the same place at the same time, he and this mysterious woman were connected and whatever influence she possessed, he would find a way to make his own. He had no plans to resurrect that provincial image of the female warrior; there was no place for feminine weakness in the world of his New Man. But as he felt the rough edges of marble railing where two bullets had missed their mark, it would, he thought, be convenient to have a goddess at his side.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

"Oh, Diana, undeserving daughter of Zeus and mortal. So caring; so trusting; so naïve." From the heavens Hera, wife of Zeus and Mother of Gods, viewed the events with approval. "Just as I thought; your endless compassion and belief that in all men there is good, will become your own destruction."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

She had never before been so humiliated. And at the hands of one of her own sex, it was... _unforgivable_.

Dr. Isabel Maru dashed across the secret German airbase, the site which was to showcase the heights of her abilities now become catastrophe; defeat for the German Empire and destruction of all she'd achieved. Only seconds before had she scrambled to safety from beneath the armoured tank a monstrous super-woman held aloft, intent on crushing her; while on every side aircraft were consumed by fire; buildings lay in ruins; panicked soldiers scurried like ants; and above, the bomber carrying her greatest accomplishment, a weapon that would have brought England to its knees, suddenly exploded and vanished as though it never existed. While a barrage of artillery spectacular as lightning illuminated the sky and bombs shattered the ground, weapons probably carried through tunnels and buried in bunkers beneath the landing fields as the deceitful English were known to do, she'd struggled to her feet, leaving behind all she'd worked toward these past five years.

The attack was clearly the work of the British who excelled at such trickery, and executed by the Americans who claimed they could do anything. Why the enemy had chosen to experiment upon and train a woman into a super-soldier she couldn't comprehend; that was something she would have expected of the Germans, the creation of a tribe of mythical Valkyries to terrorize and conquer. But even in the darkness she could clearly see this weapon was a product of the Allies; the she-beast was draped in the colors of Germany's oppressors; yielded a sword like the heroine ' _Britannia'_ ; wore a crown as the American statue of liberties; and dressed in an indecent skirt one could only expect from the French.

The auto Isabel been riding in had been destroyed, she thrown clear while the driver and guard assigned to her were killed and the notes she'd gathered in the rush of escape consumed by fire or lost. All she had created she held in her mind; what formulas and percentages and blueprints were too complex to memorize, General Ludendorff had insisted she keep only in her notebook with no copies others could use to weaken their position but she, alone and without German approval, had posted duplicates to an address only she knew. From her first years at University, a time begun with hope and promise only to be opposed and discredited and denied, she had been persuaded to apply her knowledge, her skills, toward scientific achievements from which she was dismissed and men with far fewer abilities would call their own. She would not allow that to happen, again.

As Isabel ran past rows of partially destroyed, useless aircraft and evaded spotlights that may, or may not be searching for her; she recognized it may not have been enough to learn to distrust the men of Germany and England and America; she would have been prudent to distrust the women, also, who by their own folly or madness could prove just as begrudging and malicious. Of the two men who had gained her faith, recognized and encouraged her talents and now faced a future as indefinite as her own, she could be neither certain nor confident either would again be there to support her; or that either were still alive. Only minutes before as the guard urged her to hurry and the driver threatened to leave without them, she had searched for Ludendorff but no one, frantic in their own escape, could tell her where he was other than the abrupt mention of 'the wireless tower' which the enemy had already destroyed. If the General had been in that tower as it crashed to earth it would have been the loss of one of Germany's greatest leaders, and of her only friend. And if that _woman_ had somehow caused his death....

The second man, her mentor who had fostered and favored her, was, Isabel believed, in Berlin; safe, for now, until the English and Americans invade and for the immediate future it would only be with him that she could recover any measure of redemption. Moving alone, she would be faster than an Allied army that traveled with trucks and horses and savored their victory.

No guards were at the gates and she bolted sharply left, into the forest where the heels of her shoes sank into the damp, thick mulch beneath a grove of trees where she'd hidden a small auto, fueled with gasoline and packed with reserves and supplies for the twelve-or-more-hour journey. She'd hoped this night would have brought ultimate victory for her adopted country and vindication for herself, a convoy south into Paris and celebration rather than disgraceful flight eastward to Berlin and from there, anywhere she could continue her work. Germany may have been defeated, its people crushed; but she wasn't German. She had been underestimated and degraded before; by her family; her class-mates; her country; innumerable men who saw her as an object of contempt and ridicule and disrespect or simply as an object; but never before had she been mistreated by another woman; one who certainly must have also been manipulated and used and would likely one day be discarded by those she trusted.

If, Isabel thought, driving away from the spasms of un-godly, blue light flashing above the former hidden airfield; I don't kill her first.

* * *

"You may pass. Do not leave the main road."

Driving five hours that felt like fifty, through shattered landscapes and shadowed masses lurking at the edge of darkness, shapes that could have been abandoned vehicles as easily as dead horses and forgotten men; feeling for roads that were no more than muddy pathways between smoking ruins and fields shrouded in gas and fog and death; only when she had crossed the border from Belgium into Germany had Dr. Maru been required to formally present her identity papers. In the hour between Ghent to Antwerp, avoiding Brussels which may have already been in enemy possession, the guard posts she passed had been abandoned and while she drove warily with headlamps dimmed, the only other traffic she encountered were a speeding motorcycle and ambulances traveling west. Outside Antwerp, three times she had been stopped, but allowed to pass without question by soldiers as eager to allow any passing traffic as they were to return home. Nearing the border the roads filled with cars and trucks and buses heading toward Germany; citizens and patriots and those who feared the French more than the Germans. Only on the miles between Antwerp and Liège, then the short distance to the crossing at Aachen, was she able to make the most efficient use of her roadster, an American Scripps-Booth Model D V-8 which was promised to easily travel at 75 miles per hour. Say what you will about Americans, she thought; they kept their promises.

Isabel arrived in Cologne just as the sun began to rise and, if all had proceeded as scheduled, only an hour or so before her bombs were to be dropped on London. But there was no use dwelling on that; as always she had done her best work without demand or complaint under conditions and with materials far below her requirements; and, as usual, those in whom she had set her faith had failed. Certainly, one would think, it would be within the abilities of even the German High Command to keep a 'secret' airbase; _secret_. Here, safe in Germany, she could rest at least one day; she hadn't slept in more than two and what remained of the rejuvenation compound she had formulated for Ludendorff but initially tested on herself, had been left behind.

It was a shock and relief to see land that hadn't been touched by war; no buildings were standing precariously, walls torn from their foundations by artillery and bombs; the ground was smooth and solid, even in this second week of November green grass could still be seen and many trees continued to hold their leaves. If she hadn't just come from the destruction of the Front, at first glance Cologne would have appeared as if the war had never begun.

But the condition of structures and cleanliness of streets and canopies of trees didn't reflect the condition of the city's population; although it was just past 6AM, women and children darted from sidewalk to corner only to patiently join lines outside butcher's shops and bakers. She overheard few greetings of 'Good morning', or conversations among friends; it seemed most people were too distracted or worn even for those pleasantries. No stray dogs ran along the streets and two horses sluggishly pulling a nearly-empty wagon were more emaciated than the people. The only men; of the few men Germany still had; walked bent and crooked - some from age; others from burden; and the remainder without a leg, or an arm, or eyes.

"Entschuldigen Sie", she called out to a woman carrying an abnormally quiet infant in one arm and an empty basket in the other; "Where is the nearest Inn?"

"You must not stay here" she replied flatly; "it is not safe." Isabel had expected the woman to be the child's grandmother, but as she came close, the wrinkles and weariness of her expression had hidden her eyes, youthful but too dulled to even react to the first sight of Isabel's face, its left side masked in plaster and clay while serving to shield her from pain others could inflict.

"The English are on their way - don't you know? They will arrive any hour to imprison or enslave us...all the horrors they claimed we forced upon Belgium, they will do far worse to us. If I had an auto like yours; and if I had the choice to leave; I would.' She sighed, gazing down on her obligations, burdens of a lifetime although it was obvious she couldn't be much older than Isabel's twenty-seven years.

"Then there is no place I can rest?"

"The only inns I know of are closed; not enough to eat, or drink, and no one comes to rent beds. You can try..." she pointed behind her and to the north, "...no, do you not understand? Do you want English soldiers to violate you?"

With no other word she turned away, but Isabel reached out to grasp her sleeve. "Take this, the child needs food." Isabel placed a five-Mark note between the woman's fingers.

"Danke," she droned, "but keep your money. Yesterday this would have fed my family for a week. Today it will not purchase a loaf of bread; if there was bread to buy."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4** ****

Without sleep; little to eat; and continual worry that at any point a German officer, or even a group of deserters, could force her to surrender her automobile and few possessions; or, if men had become desperate and savage, forcing her to concede even more; Isabel Maru raced eastward, pushing her roadster and herself beyond their limits. The villages she passed had appeared nearly vacant, inhabitants slipping along streets before disappearing through doors and into basements. Every city was ringed with heavily armed guard-posts, the soldiers fulfilling their duties while, by the looks in their eyes and though overheard comments, questioning if the war is over, what held them to duties they no longer needed to fulfill. Germany, where Isabel had hoped to find safety and re-assurance, if even for a few days, had itself become a different type of war-zone; a country untouched by battle but where the population, most only knowing the effects of war and not war itself, foresaw enemy occupation and forced obedience and annihilation of all they'd been led to believe: The German army could not be defeated; Germany's _kulture_ is superior to all others; ' _God is With Us_ '.

"Ah, but that is how Germany is" Isabel said aloud to no one but herself, shaking her head and blinking her eyes to remain awake. "They are a young country testing its strength and confident in its future; while hundreds of years ago Spain exhausted itself and was forgotten.” She smirked, recalling the irony. “There, I would have been nothing. Today, Germany is confused and panicked. But that will pass, and tomorrow Germany will again be strong." She wiped her eyes with a dampened handkerchief and tried to focus on the road ahead. "Tomorrow, Germany will again need Dr. Isabel Maru."

<<<<<<>>>>>>

“A school of that distinction would never accept you, Isabel. It must be some mistake.”

Her mind drifted to a day ten years ago, the afternoon she'd received a letter from Breslau University in Prussia; the country formerly considered Poland but annexed by the German Empire and as such, subject to German standards of military and government and culture and education. At that time Isabel Maru had been Isabel Baldomero, the youngest child of an indistinct family living in an over-looked village at the forgotten edge of Madrid, the capitol and largest city of Spain, in little more than a century fallen from world-encompassing Empire to the backward relics, geographically and progressively, of Europe. While the nation held tightly to its remaining domains and Madrid stood apart as a cultural, educational; and industrial centre, just as evident were how easily the city's population fell into mediocrity and indifference, families drawn to the city for opportunity and ensnared by circumstance. At seventeen years old, her achievements so far beyond students her age and older, Isabel was upheld as an influence to her school-mates and considered an inspiration by those who awarded her accomplishments in local; provincial; and national competition, her scientific studies often besting even those of University under-classmen. But as every accolade drew her nearer completion the final year of parochial school and opportunities for women to continue their education considered unnecessary; excessive; and to some, sinful; Isabel dreamed less of her future, because she knew of no future to dream.

“It's an invitation to sit for entrance examinations, Mamá. They would not have asked me if they didn't believe I at least meet the requirements. Everyone knows the Breslau schools of medicine and science are without equal. And it's in Poland, the home of Maria Skłodowska - Madame Curie. Maybe they are eager to find another woman who will win the Nobel Prize!” Isabel suggested, only partially in jest.

“They are probably looking to fill a quota; students of a specific culture, or background, or they wish to show German superiority. Invite students from other countries, lands which were once strong, only so they will return home in shame” her father added, head bowed over forms stating odds for racing, and football, and lotteries. “Not everyone who attends University can be brilliant. Maybe they need students of Isabel's type.”

“Even if it's not a mistake, they must know it would be impossible for you to attend; if you somehow passed the exams. Who would do you your work, if you were gone? I can't care for the house and Grandpapá and your father and your brothers by myself - the boys are useless, and your sister now has her own responsibilities. No young girl needs to attend school when her family needs her at home, where she should prepare for a family of her own.”

“I can't stay home forever, Mamá.”

“When you marry, then you will leave, and understand how difficult life can be. To attend this school, how would you travel, and live? There is no money.”

“The letter states if I am accepted, I will receive a scholarship.”

“You don't speak German. How would you understand?”

“I've studied three years of German and French and ancient languages no longer spoken, Papá. I've showed you my class scores.”

“If they are words no one knows, then what's the point?” her father mumbled.

“German is part of the exams; I will not be accepted if they decide my language skills are inadequate.”

“Where are these exams held?” Isabel's mother asked, searching for another excuse to deny her daughter's participation.

“At the _Universidad Central_ , in the city. Only a short train ride away, Mamá.”

“The _Universidad Central de Madrid_ ?” 'Mamá' replied in exaggerated shock, voicing a silent prayer and crossing her forehead and chest. “It is not a school administered by the Church. It is not a place young girls should be allowed.”

“I've been to the _Universidad Central_ many times, Mamá , for exercises and seminars. There are many girls who attend.”

“Girls of a certain type have no shame. Those excursions were with your classmates, accompanied by Sisters of the Holy Order, and overseen by a Father; traveling alone is not the same. I will not allow it. And who would have presumed to recommend you to this foreign school? It certainly would not have been any of the Sisters or Priests, who, if they were guided by God to suggest any school, would advocate only for one of the Church.”

“I don't know who chose me, or why, but it's just the examination; I haven't been accepted. It's only one day, a few hours, Mamá . I won't be leaving for Germany tomorrow...” Isabel faded. “...most likely, I never will.”

“Maybe she can talk Martín or Thomás to going with her” Isabel's father muttered. “I would go myself, but, you see there is so much I must do and only so many hours in the day.”

“ _Bien_ ”, Isabel's mother acquiesced, knowing her two sons, now that they believed they were old enough to be considered men, would do little for anyone and the chances of either one shepherding their little sister were slight; “if one of your brothers will stay with you, you may go. But he must promise before the Holy Mother that he will not become drunk or lay with prostitutes and abandon you. _Bien._ ”

<<<<<<>>>>>>

_BERLIN: 252km_

Isabel's attention snapped back to the roadway, a pathway of packed dirt and dried mud edged against trees too large to cut; jogging past angled farmlands and occasional herds of cows; over sections of bridge that may or may not be wide enough for two vehicles to pass at one time; and peppered with lengths of cobble, brick, or macadam leading into cities and townships or in segments suddenly appearing in the countryside, established by wealthy land-owners to heighten the prestige of their estates. Physically, she was nearing exhaustion and mentally, her mind was wandering more than she wished; but she could not stop, not now. Berlin was less than three hours away and to stop would be weakness. Years ago, she'd vowed she would never again be weak.

“Papers!” The corporal at the checkpoint outside Hanover was more nervous than efficient, absorbed in gazing toward the west and south while he absently leafed through Dr. Maru's documents. No soldier had questioned why she hadn't the proper stamps or signatures; and only once had a guard called his officer, who bowed toward her and berated his sergeant once Isabel had produced a letter of passage signed by General Ludendorff. The roads were no longer empty, and the further into Germany she progressed, the more often clouds of dust betrayed vehicles ahead: Supply trucks jostled and shook as they wove from side to side while armoured-vehicles, sluggish and over-burdened, held up traffic behind. Horse-drawn artillery and machine-gun trolleys, fear and fatigue between animals and humans indistinguishable, continued to move forward only because there was no other choice; touring cars filled with commanding officers wove through traffic and darted between vehicles, drivers yelling at those that dared block their path. As the Corporal cleared Dr. Maru's approvals and sent her on her way, an impatient Captain in a beaten-but-serviceable motorcycle with side-car honked his horn and shouted to be let through. Isabel steadied the steering wheel with one hand as she replaced her documents into her handbag with her other, pulling away as the motorcycle took her place against the barrier gate; and Isabel again fell into memories she hadn't before had time, or resolve, to recall.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

“Papers!”

The German official standing at the other side of the desk impatiently held out his palm and tapped a steady cadence with his pencil. “Passport, Fräulein. You are holding up the line.”

Only weeks after she had completed the entrance examinations a letter of acceptance arrived from Breslau, with typical German frankness less an announcement of welcome as a notice informing her of responsibilities; expectations; rules and penalties for infractions of said rules; and listing her courses and activities of her first term. Once she had arranged for her Spanish travel documents; sufficient for her to pass through France and once in Germany, accepted as adequate until issue and certification of her presence as a temporary resident; the involvement of Isabel's family in her journey turned from passive discouragement to inattentive resignation; her father uncaring; her sister unaware; her brothers jealous and her mother repeating, from time to time and always when others could hear, of the disappointment and pain her children had caused her.

As Autumn arrived with shortened days and crisp evenings and greens turned golden, Isabel handed her paperwork - languidly issued in Spain; arrogantly questioned, validated and stamped in France; and now, sternly reviewed by a German customs agent whose tailored uniform and terse manner could be that of any over-confident government official.

“Name, country and place of origin, destination, and purpose in Germany” the official questioned by accusation, his eyes steeled and Isabel unable to read any emotion from his mouth, largely hidden behind a mustache that grew from nose to upper lip and extended into precisely-waxed arcs beyond both cheeks.

“Isabel Baldomero”, she replied by routine, through three countries the process the same; the languages different. “Madrid, Spain. Breslau University; I'm to be a student”; and in each language, her slight lisp which was normal, even expected, of those in her region grew more evident the further behind she left Spain.

“Isabel Valda Maro?” the agent muddled, superficially looking at her passport and summarily pushing it aside as though anything not German was without value.

“Isabel _Baldo-mero_ ” she offered, feeling the glare of unseen eyes bearing upon her; looks she'd begun to notice as the train passed through familiar countryside and drove eastward, transferring at the cosmopolis of Barcelona where, as Isabel watched grand ladies and polished gentlemen, it became clear she was not from the city yet still familiar enough with customs and culture not to be considered an outsider. Once she had passed onto French trains the looks grew more obvious, ignored whispers and muffled laughs scarcely disguising she no longer belonged. Most agonizing of all were her two hours in Paris, waiting for her connection in the grandest building she'd ever seen while finely-dressed women in sweeping dresses and feathered hats went out of their way to avoid her and men in tight suits and frock coats suggested an uncomfortable amount of attention and on three occasions police officers inquired of her purpose.

She had worn only her finest clothes to see; once she was in the world; they weren't that fine at all.

“Ah.” The customs agent began to assemble a file of papers from various compartments edging the desk and with each, he perfunctorily filled; dated; stamped; signed; collated and folded them into a small packet. “Your papers of documentation” he noted while he worked, speaking without eye contact. “While you reside or travel within Germany or any portion of the German Empire, you will have these available for review by any official upon request. If you petition for German citizenship, you may apply for a German passport; the passport of your country of origin will not be accepted as official documentation.” He handed the packet, along with Isabel's original passport and her other papers, to their owner and glanced at the overwhelmed and uncertain girl bravely facing the future as if she were an experienced and hardened young woman. “Welcome to Germany, _Isabel Valda Maru_. Next!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The shops had just opened and in Berlin, panic had not yet arrived. By threat or disgrace the strikes that had plagued the city earlier in the year had been extinguished: Workers forced to produce more while lacking the materials of production; soldiers and sailors at first despondent and desperate as their comrades continued to die and the war staggered to a stalemate, then briefly enthused when Ludendorff pushed his forces forward, advancing so near Paris even even the rooftops could be seen. But then the Americans entered a fight which wasn't theirs, and morale faltered despite how thorough the General's plans nor skillful Dr. Maru had been in creating new methods of death. Civilians, knowing of the war only rumors and what censors allowed, were too concerned about what would happen in their own families and Häuserblock to pay much attention to what the Social Democrats; Conservatives; Progressives; Liberals; Centrists; Bolsheviks; and believers in other ideologies protested or promised.

Only as Isabel drove northward on Potsdamer Stráße - avoiding the Brandenburg Gates; Unter den Linden; and the ranks of buildings housing various Government offices of administration; ministry; authority; directorate; and other levels of official and non-official but existent responsibility - was she able to let free a deep breath and begin to relax. Whether this was from familiarity or relief of nearing her destination, she wasn't certain. The Berlin of November 1918 appeared much as she expected: The traffic chaotic but efficient; mothers walked in the parks with children at their sides or in a carriage to the front; and even the air smelled the same, a mixture of crisp autumn and horse and automobile; of coffee and cigars and freshly-baked breads. Over the past four years the numbers of women, their pre-war dresses of rose and lilac numbed to black, had slowly increased over the quantity of men who only seemed to grow older and grey, their disabilities more severe. ' _For many,_ ' Isabel thought, _'their suffering is over. For others, it has just begun._ '

From 1917 the government had provided her an apartment; initially, she had been told, for her convenience as it was improper for a young woman to remain housed alongside men; then as a small compensation for the sacrifice of her disfigurement; and as the War worsened, more certainly so they would always know where she could be found. In these rooms, secure and sequestered two blocks west of the Library and adjacent to the Biological Institute for Agriculture and Forestry where according to official records she was employed, Isabel assumed the life of a loyal government worker, although to her neighbors and anyone bold enough not to look away when they saw her face, one whose work remained hidden. In that apartment she knew agents and officers and others unknown but suspected kept a watch on her, 'for her own protection'. Yet from the summer of 1918 when anyone who acknowledged that the war was likely lost and the future indefinite, Isabel had kept an apartment anonymously and of her own; on the third floor of Hotel Esplanade and directly across from the Ministry of War, where she could keep a watch on them.

To this apartment is where she mailed copies of her notes and detailed plans of her work; the address not in her name, but to whom she wanted others to believe her to be, parcels and correspondence posted to a conspicuous room in a celebrated hotel at the cultural center of Berlin, not because she lived in luxury but because anyone who knew Isabel Maru would not expect the Doctor to be found among luxuries. At the heart of Potsdamer Platz where tram lines converged and pedestrians in the thousands passed each day; where people socialized at street-side tables and purchased flowers from old women who appeared with the sunrise and vanished before dusk. Steps from Haus Vaterland and Weinhaus Huth, where she had once seen Charlie Chaplin (although not his Tramp) keenly observing passers-by before he became too famous to be granted a few moments solitude. Where it was not uncommon for the Kaiser, comfortably isolated in the rear-seat of a custom-made Daimler, to appear, his arrival announced by the first measure of _Das Rheingold - Entry into Valhalla;_ sounding from his car's horn.

“Frau”, the parking guard tipped his hat as Dr. Maru drove through the archway separating the restlessness of the street from the seclusion within. Despite, or because of the black lace veil she'd worn from the first day she'd checked in and was never seen in the Hotel without, she was known to every employee although none knew anything of her; and all employees of Hotel Esplanade were too discreet to ask.

“Frau Valda” the tall, thin man at the front desk acknowledged more as statement than greeting. “Your parcels have arrived and been sent to your room, as you have directed. If We had advanced notice of your arrival, We would have arranged for your rooms to be aired, and flowers placed on your side-table.”

“It is of no matter. It has been an unexpected journey. Key?” Isabel requested, extending her hand.

“Should We expect Frau for an extended rest?” the clerk inquired, reaching to his left and removing Isabel's room key from a series of slots fitted into a counter at his back.

“I cannot say. Things have changed. I'm certain you've heard.”

“We at Hotel Esplanade hear nothing.” He straightened his back and squared his shoulders even beyond their initial immaculate posture, his right arm snapping to attention against his grey and black hotel uniform while his empty left sleeve, pinned to his coat, awkwardly fluttered; that arm lost and encased in the shreds of an army uniform somewhere in the mud of France.

“It is no secret the war may be over” Isabel stated, drawing closer to the desk and lowering her voice. “My business has taken me into Belgium. There is talk our armies may not recover from the recent dishonesties of the English, now supported by their American allies. I would urge you to make appropriate preparations. I will retain my apartment until I decide otherwise.”

“Danke, Frau Valda. And We remain at your service.”

Isabel walked purposely from the front desk to the elevators, crossing the lobby filled with travelers; low-and mid-level Army and Naval officers; groups of older women, various men of uncertain purpose and numbers of younger women dressed in black and wearing veils. To any that noticed Isabel was simply another war-widow mourning her loss; none looked beyond the lace to recognize her deformed and twisted face and after many months, hotel staff granted Frau Valda great compassion for, they assumed, whomever she had lost in the war which even now remained a burden too great for her to bear.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

To anyone passing, the buildings of the War Ministry appeared no different than they had the prior five years - guards stood at their posts, flags fluttered in the breeze, and staff cars and motorcycles hurried though the gates - inside, however, the buildings stormed with madness. At the entrance Dr. Maru was briefly stopped, two soldiers blocking her path with rifles crossed until a Lieutenant ordered them aside; but once inside she moved with near-impunity, sweeping past messengers and clerks and staff officers who seldom left the building but now scurried as terrified mice. She climbed stairways to the building's highest floors and moved down hallways to its furthest recesses, the more deeply she ascended the less frenzied its occupants appeared and the greater recognization she was given, challenged by none and questioned only by discreet and momentary looks, her clothing changed to a fresh jacket, blouse and skirt, her face uncovered except for the ceramic plates she wore on her left cheek, and lips, and jaw; a mask more protective than flesh had ever been.

“General Ludendorff believes Germany cannot win battles fought simultaneously without and within; against both the English and the Bolsheviks” she said to the man sitting across from her, the personification of what English and French and American newspapers mocked as the evil German: Slightly past middle age yet with the strong, refined features of a gentleman; his completely bald head enhancing, rather than detracting from his appearance and highlighting a rounded and imposing cranium; a full but well-trimmed mustache extending no further than the corners of his mouth; impeccable in manner and dress, blue eyes focused behind a pair of Pince-nez glasses perfectly balanced between his brows.

“The situation is not quite as serious as has been reported” the man stated. “Workers are too hungry to cause many problems; in Berlin there is plenty for those who know where it can be obtained and have the resources, financial, or otherwise, to acquire whatever they need. But I do agree, Germany's limits have been strung to the breaking point. More coffee?”

“No, thank you” Isabel replied, sitting straight and composed on the high-back, leather chair. She reached to set her saucer and half-empty cup on the table between them but mis-judging by fatigue, struck the edge of her plate against wood, nearly dropping the china to the floor. “It will take me weeks to re-formulate the chemicals lost, if I had access to the basic materials” Isabel smoothly recovered, placing her dish atop the table and allowing her right arm to fall to the arm-rest. “By then it may be too late.”

“Do not be concerned about materials, Doctor. My personal stocks are largely untouched, and the resources of Russia are free for the taking. Availability of sufficient laboratory space, however, must be a factor. When can you begin work?”

“Once I again have the facilities I need, removed from any location the English may occupy. To remain in Berlin is unacceptable and unwise.”

“Of course,” the man answered; “and if Allied armies do enter Berlin; or any other metropolitan area; our laboratories and production must not be risked. To destroy them by bombs or contamination would be counterproductive.”

“Then you would apply gases within German cities, effecting German citizens?”

“If the English should arrive to freely walk our streets, what choice is there? Any German deaths would be remembered as heroes ” he concluded with a smile both disarming and differential. He placed his cup beside Isabel's and dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “But, you say, Ludendorff is alive; you have spoken with him?”

“Alive; I believe so. He has survived battles far worse. I last saw him two days...is that correct?” Isabel questioned, rubbing her forehead with her left hand. “I last saw him Friday evening. Without my... _assistance_ , I fear for his health.”

“It is your health I am concerned with”, he stated, reaching out to reassuringly touch her forearm. “You are exhausted.”

Dr. Maru smiled weakly and folded her right arm onto her left, protectively crossing her lap. “I've driven from Ghent without rest. It was...difficult.”

“Berlin should be safe, at least for the time it will take you to restore your strength. Then the experimental airfield, and all we worked toward...?”

“Yes, Herr Haber. The field is gone; all our work has been destroyed.” Isabel sighed deeply in resignation and defiance, her face a mask of emotions she had withheld, but unable to control the sadness draped within her eyes. “What had been our greatest pride will be known only as the land where Germany lost the war.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

“What, exactly, did they tell you?” Steve Trevor unsteadily leaned back on a finely-embroidered sofa, uncertain if the silk upholstery was designed for someone who within the past few days had been from war to heaven and to hell and back, literally, while not once bathing or changing his clothes. “Doesn't it seem kinda strange for these people to be showing us this much attention? And not once asking who we are, or where we've come from? And your little lasso trick didn't exactly do much to keep us unnoticed.”

“Influence over the Lasso of Hestia is no 'trick'. I have studied its conduct for many of your decades”, Diana replied, slowly walking around the third-story room, noting the location of windows and doors; its placement of furniture and decoration; considering what, if necessary, could be most useful for defense or attack. “Those in the black clothing said only this man, Mussolini, wished to speak with me. They did not say on what subject. At first they indicated I should come alone, but I specified you must accompany me; that we are together. If you wished to remain unnoticed,” she turned and gazed directly into Steve's eyes, “you should not have created an annoyance by declaring my prevention of a murder was without reason. All I do, Steve Trevor, is for the good.”

“All I meant, Diana, is maybe it's not any of our business. This place is as much a mystery to us as we are to them. Sometimes it's better just to stand back, out of the way, and see what's happening before jumping in with both feet. Who's this Mussolini? Why does everyone around him dress in black and act like they're in an army, while the signs on the buildings declare 'peace' and 'progress' and people cheer like he's some sort of savior? These are things I'd like to know before I go off half-cocked.”

Diana's muscles tensed and her eyes flared. “My actions are not those of any form of rooster, neither half nor whole. I did what I must. There is no more to be said.” She glanced through a nearby window, in a second calculating its dimensions and area of vantage and the angles of trajectory necessary to defend the opening by arrow and spear. “I do not care for this room” she asserted, her voice sharp but measured. “The views are blocked on three sides; its furnishings are for decoration only and easily pierced; the doorways open into larger spaces rather than serving to confine and restrict. It cannot be effectively defended and there is insufficient space for battle.”

“Every situation doesn't have to be measured for a fight, Diana” Steve answered, finding the sofa more comfortable than he'd expected and realizing if some dirt or char or self-aware protoplasm from the underworld rubbed into the fabric, he'd been invited here and it wasn't his problem. “Come and sit down; the furniture doesn't feel as pretentious as it looks.”

“That is another concern; these furnishings are not designed to accommodate a person armed with sword and shield.”

“The real issue, Diana, is I just don't think you like waiting - or being, god forbid, comfortable. Maybe you'd like it better if there was nothing but rocks and dirt and if you really want to indulge, maybe a little bit of hay to tuck under your head. You've got to learn to take advantage of life's little luxuries when you can” he finished, resting his feet on a nearby table.

“Rocks and hay would be of greater purpose” Diana replied under her breath.

“Il Primo Ministro attende” announced a small man with a large voice as he swung open a set of double doors centered along the furthest wall. Dressed in a formal cut-away coat burnished with braid and medals and decorations, he stepped to one side as Steve stood and Diana scrutinized this new arrival.

“Seems this guys' the Prime Minister” Steve stated, “If 'Primo Ministro' means what I think it does. And if this is Rome, that makes him a pretty important member of the Italian government. At least we know who we're dealing with.”

The three stepped through the doorway into a second set of rooms as ornate as the first, the floors tiled in intricate patterns; the walls covered in gold-gilt and silks; and the ceiling elaborately embossed. This room, however, held little furniture and appeared to be more a passageway than a waiting area. Directly in front; centered, as before, on the furthest wall; two men in uniform stood at attention, each to either side of another set of double doors.

“P er favore” the small man urged, this time not quite so loudly as he gestured toward the far wall. Steve and Diana moved through the room, the two men sweeping the doors open in unison only when the approaching guests were nearly close enough to open the doors themselves.

“Salvete, frater, et soror mea!” _[Welcome brother and sister]_ declared a balding, relatively non-descript looking man sitting behind a desk in the far corner. He wore a dark suit with silk tie and shirt with tuxedo collar; formal evening wear although it was only early afternoon. The same man who had narrowly missed assassination only a few hours earlier, he had changed from the business suit he had been wearing but seemed no worse for his experience. Probably because Diana had been there to save his life, Steve thought.

Steve and Diana crossed the room, similar in size and decoration to the others but rather than doors along the back wall, a fireplace, so large as to be mistaken for doors, took their place. Other than the desk, itself only sparsely covered with papers and files, a single, over-size lamp eclipsing much of the desktop; the office held very little; only a few small tables and stands and a cat resting on a windowsill. It was, Steve noticed, an attempt at majesty with the result of incompleteness.

“Nos sunt honoratur,” _[We are honored]_ Diana responded formally, taking position at a respectful distance but close enough to establish herself as an equal. She stood imposing and regal, what in any other would be considered pretentious but for Diana was simply herself. Steve remained at her side but no matter if he had stood or sat or performed gymnastics, he would have been overshadowed. “Quomodo i auxilium vobis?” _[How may I help you?]_ Diana clearly stated to her host; while whispering to her companion:

“Steve, it is a feline.”

“Yeah, you don't like cats? You don't have those on Paradise Island?”

“It is they that do not care for me. Their presence results in a...reaction.”

Mussolini leaned forward and glared at Steve suspiciously. “Your grandfather; he does not speak the language of the civilized?” he questioned in Latin.

“No...” Diana responded equally, uncertain why anyone would consider Steve her grandfather. “He is from another land; and is not my father. We are visitors to your country.”

“Ahh. Then he is your uncle? A much older brother, perhaps?”

“Steve is my companion. He speaks only English.”

“American” Steve interjected, not understanding what the two were saying as any Latin he'd learned in school was long forgotten, but hearing the word ' anglicus', or something similar, he assumed they were talking about him.

“Ah.” Mussolini dismissed, turning his attention back to Diana. “Loqueris Italiae?” _[do you speak Italian]_

“Non facio.” _[I do not]_

“Then we speak in English; the language of commerce” he continued. “I am not fluent, but perhaps it is a way we each can talk together, no? Italian; the language of the people; is useful and the only language known by the peasants; but Latin belongs of a higher culture, do you not think? One day all Italy will return to Latin and to the ways of our ancestors; this is only one improvement I will bring!” he emphasized by slapping his desk, accompanied with a broad and somewhat disturbing grin.

“AND THAT IS WHO I THOUGHT OF YOU”, he directed toward Steve, over-accentuating each word and at three times usual volume. “THAT SHE IS YOUR GRAND-DAUGHTER!” he laughed. “But”, he returned his attention to Diana, glancing between her tanned body and oval face and dark hair and eyes and Steve's squared features; blue eyes; and pale hair; Mussolini accusingly added: “I see there is no connection.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

“I must give thanks for your intercession” Mussolini acknowledged, standing to offer a slight bow toward Diana. “The faithful would have prevented any further problems, but only you recognized the danger. The people,” he paced toward the fireplace, “see you as a woman of great skills; and, clearly of much beauty.” He stopped and faced Diana, hands folded behind his back. “You have gained far more with your play-acting than what those who paid you would have expected.”

“It was not 'play',” Diana refuted. “I did what I must, only by applying the skills taught to me by my Mother; my Aunts; my sisters; and in honor of the Gods.”

“What she means is, she's very good at what she does. Been practicing for years” Steve commented before their host could voice the question forming on his face.

“Not practice; training. I am Diana, Princess...

“Princess of Performance!” Steve interrupted. “Star of the Stage. Skilled with the rope; marksman with arrow and spear; trick riding; costumes for every occasion; actress...she's very versatile.” He'd heard a similar introduction once at a Wild West show. “A hit in London and well-known in France.”

Diana fumed silently.

“YOU ARE HER...DIRECTOR?”

“Manager” Steve replied, slightly drawing back from Mussolini's unnecessary shouting. “Agent; personal representative; _imprasiairo_ , you might say. Book all her performances; arrange for transportation and lodging; keep her out of trouble, if you know what I mean” he nodded, grinning. “All the business details women have trouble handling.” He rested his arm protectively around Diana's shoulder and quickly removed it in response to the glaring disapproval she focused toward him.

“I do not 'know what you mean' ” Mussolini answered, returning to his desk and addressing Diana. “If it is employment you seek, I have need for you in my government.”

“We're not really political people....” Steve argued and was ignored.

“No; my need is not for the daily intricacies of politics; I have many others to assist in that. What I lack is an...instrument...what is the correct word? Image?; an image the people can look toward and become impassioned.”

“With your picture pasted everywhere, seems the people are pretty passionate about you.”

“Yes,” Mussolini smirked. “They are appreciative. But I cannot be all the things to all the people; I must be the strong Father who shows guidance and opportunity; who protects and provides and if they do not obey, punishes. My image cannot be one of kissing babies, playing with kittens and displaying weakness” he countered as the cat jumped onto his desk, seeking attention. “Although the cat, while it may purr, is still a fine hunter.”

“Ahh- CHOO” Diana sneezed.

“Yeah, I saw one of those posters of you surrounded by children. Not, I have to say, too convincing.”

“Salute. You then understand my position. The peasants continue to believe Italia , she of an ancient folk-myth, lives to care and watch over her people. We who are civilized know it is only a story, but the simple people cannot change their beliefs so easily, no? As their new father, I must teach that Italy move away from thoughts we are a poor, ignorant country - we create a new Italy of new ideas, a goddess of government, not of story!”

“To provide a better life for your people is an honorable goal,” Diana answered. “However... ah... CHOO!”

“Salute. In the time of only months, I have rescued Italy from destructive and wasteful policies which became the pain and hardship in the War. I have served that children and families abandoned by the greed and dealings of others, receive assistance. I have ordered projects to benefit all; dams and water-sources; roadways; study and restoration of our Roman antiquities, that all may recognize Her glory. Improvements that all will be equal, none can selfishly hoard and stockpile while others have little. Italy will be again be strong.”

“You take these actions toward the greatest good; not to condemn or discredit, but to empower?” Diana asked, blinking her eyes which had suddenly been overtaken by uncontrollable tears. “And this is what your people wish?”

“The people,” Mussolini grinned and raised his hands in a sign of humble acceptance, “elected me to these responsibilities. Each day I pray God assist me in the successful completion of my arduous tasks. There is no need to cry; I bear the burdens God has chosen.”

“I know of such a land,” Diana replied although her throat had become dry and irritated. “Far away, ruled strongly but also with wisdom and compassion. The burdens of responsibility are many, but by the help of the Gods, its ruler guides her people to justice and inspires purpose. Only good Ah - CHOO can come of a man who wishes to guide his land; lead his people; in such a manner.”

“Inspires! That is the word which I searched. To be strong, Italy must be inspired; to be inspired,” he gazed at Diana, “the people must believe in one whose beauty and strength and purpose, inspires. The people must obey a leader,” he grinned confidently, “who works only to bring greatness. And to achieve that greatness, together, we must fight. Salute.”

Steve stepped forward, smiling what he hoped was a disarming smile. “That all sounds great, helping orphans and inspiring improvements and building dams - who doesn't appreciate a good dam? - but if you're asking us to be involved, we'll have to talk it over. We're just passing through, and, funny story, didn't really plan on being here....”

“Of course,” Mussolini continued, immediately disregarding anything Steve offered; “a few small changes are necessary, for the safety and dignity of yourself, and the comfort of others. Your - costume, is it, Diana? - many will find revealing and unacceptable; and to certain men, distracting. Our goddess must be pure of heart, of body, of spirit. It is not customary for the hair of women in high regard to be loose; to braid it as a crown, many would appreciate. The sword indicates strength; the shield, unity. They may remain.”

“Sure, again good ideas, we'll have to talk it over. Give us a couple of days, we'll look around, have a good dinner....”

“No.” Diana intercepted, feeling flush. “If I am of use here, I will provide what help I can. If I must present myself in a different manner; a manner more acceptable to local customs and respectful of the people, that is no sacrifice but an honor. Steve, have I not dressed in 'costumes' to 'fit in', as you have stated, on other occasions? Do I not fulfill my purpose by strengthening and assisting others toward fulfillment of their own potential? We were brought here for a reason; the Gods would not have directed us unless this were so. If that reason is for the good of all, what greater task can there be?”

'Diana, I really think....”

“There is nothing more to consider. Before us, I see a man of strength who seeks the wisdom and purpose to guide his people. It is my duty, Steve, to assist in his vision; to strengthen and encourage and bring hope. There is no more to be sai... AH-CHOO!!”

Mussolini stood with a self-assured smile, extending his arms outward as in greeting but actually signaling his attendant the meeting had ended and his visitors should be removed. “Salutem et patriae.” _[Health to you and to the Country]_

_ <<<<<<>>>>>> _

_“_ IL DUCE DIRECTS ARRANGEMENTS BE MADE” the small man, talking even more loudly than before, said to Steve although Steve still couldn't understand the language the man was speaking.

“What is this, Diana? The louder they talk the more they think I'll understand? NO ME UNDERSTANDI” Steve directed toward the small man, waving his hands in front of his ears to the man's confusion and Diana's embarrassment.

"Amicus meus modo loquitur anglorum.” _[My friend speaks only English]_

“Oh, the Englandman” he acknowledged. “IL DUCE IS DIRECTED TO ARRANGEMENTS ARE MADE. ROOMS AND CLOTHING AND AUTOMOBILE TO BE READY WHEN IS NECESSARY. YOU COME” he smiled helpfully, directing them back to the over-elaborate waiting area and from there, introducing them to a group of three men they'd not before seen. “THE GUIDES ARE YOUR MEN. WHAT IS NEEDED THEY WILL CARE FOR YOU. ADDIO” he said to Steve, followed by “Buona giornata” as he bowed and kissed Diana's hand.

“Do not be offended, my Friend” one of the three urged, placing his arm around Steve's shoulder. “Some think talking loudly is helpful, but it is only annoying, no?” The small man returned back through the room and closed the double doors behind him. “My own grandfather, he does not hear so well, I will admit; but that does not mean he wishes to be yelled at! What he does not hear, he pretends he does. There is nothing of importance he misses.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Steve didn't want to alarm Diana, but as he looked carefully at the size and bearing and faces of the men assigned to escort them; from the way they walked to the way their eyes continuously moved from side to side, expecting trouble while able to cause trouble of their own; he was reminded of ex-prize-fighters he'd seen roaming streets and bars and racetracks in New York; men that had been forced to leave the ring due to injury but were still dangerous, themselves. Two, who remained quiet and threatening, were dressed in what seemed to be the uniform of the day: Black shirt and necktie; grey pants; and a flat cap. The third, his arm secure around Steve's shoulder applying far more force than friendliness, wore the same colors as his companions but with grey knickers and tall black socks; was hatless; and over his shirt was a black leather jacket. As he guided them down the stairs and outside his clothing; greased-back hair; and overly-friendly attitude gave the impression of someone trying too hard not to be considered a bodyguard.

Diana, who knew nothing of fighting for prizes or New York or the need for someone to guard the body of another, as every Amazon was trained to care for herself; nonetheless knew these men were menacing.

“So, Friend, I have been told Il Duce has great regard for the Signorina ”, the leather-jacketed man announced as he directed Steve to the left and down the sidewalk, glancing slightly behind where Diana followed, bounded on her either side by the two others. One, the jacketed-leader saw, had fallen slightly back and was staring at Diana's legs while the other attempted to look down the front of her bodice. With a fast click of his tongue and warning gaze, the two took the signal of their leader and returned to their places, eyes front.

“Yeah,” Steve taunted. “Said she can be an image the people believe in, give 'em something to inspire that's not his own portrait. Probably has something to do with her saving your dulce's life.”

“ _Il Duce_ , my Friend” Steve's escort answered with a sharp, warning pinch to Steve's shoulder which he instinctively started to shake free, then decided best to wait for a less public opportunity. “You are visitors, and may not have learned” the leader smiled. “When you speak of Benito Mussolini; Prime Minister; great leader; father of the New Italy; it is disrespectful to say of him, anything other.”

“Yeah, I'll try to remember that, _friend_ .”

“My manners, where have they gone! You may call me 'Carlo'. My companions are...oh, you do not need to bother yourselves with their names; only know they will be at your side at all times; for anything you may need. We know your beautiful companion as 'Diana',” he turned in acknowledgment; but you; Friend; we have not been introduced.”

“Steve Trevor; American.”

“America! You may wonder how it is I speak such good English?”

“Hadn't really cared”, Steve mumbled.

“Years ago, I travel to America to make my fortune; money, they say, sits on the streets to be picked up. Please, be watchful of the curb; for men of your age, it is sometimes difficult.”

“Uh, sure, think I got it.”

“But I soon find any fortune to be made has already been claimed; men in the sky-scrapers and on the Broadway and Wall Streets have left no money for us. So I return home. Are you, Steve, one of those men who have made their fortune?”

“If so, no one's told me about it.”

“Ah, you are the funny man!” Carlo quipped, slapping Steve's back a bit too forcefully. “ _' No one has told me'_ ...” he repeated. “Yes, very funny. We are here!”

“What place is this?” Diana asked, looking up at the long, low building of faded brick and darkened marble and rough granite that seemed to hold three-storeys of nearly-endless windows, but only one entrance.

“One of the homes for the guests of Il Duce . Here you will have your apartments; it is humble, and not what an American my be accustomed to,” he gestured to Steve; “but for the truly faithful,”, he continued, looking at Diana; “it is another example of Our Father's simple beginnings. Il Duce is a generous man, wishing for all more than he asks for himself.”

“Sure, this will be great” Steve observed. “Middle of the city, we can walk around, get the feel of the place, talk with some of the 'people' everyone's so willing to please....”

“I am sorry, that cannot be allowed.” Carlo stepped in front of Steve so that he and Diana were surrounded by black-shirts on three sides and the building's doorway on the fourth. “ Il Duce may need to call upon you at any time; you must remain near.”

“You're saying we're prisoners? We can't walk the streets, or talk to anyone?”

“No, no, Steve; you misunderstand” Carlo smiled a bit too broadly, waving Steve's concern away. “Rome, City of Emperors and foundation of our great culture, is a city to be explored; to be experienced; in which there is great knowledge.”

“Then we shall walk and experience knowledge” Diana replied, setting her stance in preparation for argument, or battle. “Please inform Mussolini, Duce of Italy, we require one day's notice of any time he wishes to meet.”

“No, my dear Lady; only Mussolini decides when Mussolini will meet. He is a very busy man. Even from here, you will see his light burning into the night. So you shall remain; food will be brought, and whatever you wish, provided, yes? We are here for your needs.”

“My need is to walk.” Diana started to move her hand toward her sword; the men behind her glancing between themselves and tensing their muscles.

“Actually,” Steve interjected, forcing a yawn, “think I'm getting a little tired. Long trip, new city...wouldn't mind a nap. These men were nice enough to walk us to our apartments, Diana; would be rude of us not to go up and see 'em, at least.”

“So true, a man of your age needs his rest” Carlo stated, sliding his eyes to the right, an unspoken signal causing the other two men to lessen their aggressiveness. “ Signorina Diana , please understand; to walk the streets dressed as you are would be inappropriate. Already, people have been watching. In your country that may be the custom, but here in Rome...among some who have not yet embraced our modern age...in their simplicity, would find offense. I have been told Il Duce has arranged for all your needs...” he assured; “...here, _in your apartments_ ,” he threatened.

“Steve, did we not agree....”

“Sorry, Diana. Not as young as I used to be, I guess.” Steve yawned again, doubling the effect by rubbing his eyes. “Pretty beat, to tell you the truth.”

“Hmmph”, Diana dismissed, turning toward Carlo. Then we shall see these 'apartments'. Will your companions be accompanying us into our private quarters?” she challenged, her hand resting on her sword's hilt.

“ Signorina Diana ! I am ashamed! Never would I presume such disrespect and indecency.” He signaled for his men to take positions at each side of the door, one to either side of the marble columns framing the entrance. “You will not be bothered by such intrusions; and as you rest, I shall remain nearby to provide for your every need. Good afternoon, my friends!”

<<<<<<<>>>>>>

“Steve, why did you not fight?”

“They'll be plenty of time for that, Diana” Steve answered, scanning the street from a slit between draperies. “Out there, we couldn't know who else might belong to this guy's private army. Might have turned out to be more that we bargained for.”

“I do not 'bargain'.”

“I didn't think it was a good idea, OK? Actually, I don't like any of this. Constantly looking behind our backs; pushed and prodded to god-knows-where; everybody's dressed in black and grey so you don't know who you can trust or who'll give you the strong-arm. And now, trapped like a bird in a gilded cage” he finished, throwing up one arm to signify the comfortable but modest rooms they've been given.

“In your quarters, there is a caged bird?”

“No, Diana. We've been promised everything we need, but not allowed to find out for ourselves why they need us . There's gotta be an angle.”

“I believe Mussolini, Duce of Italy, to be a good man” Diana stated, investigating cabinets and drawers to find them stocked with books; newspapers and magazines; brushes, combs, and personal needs; wine and glasses; and everything necessary for a long and congenial stay. “If he is cautious, that is only because of those who do not understand his purpose.”

“Don't know enough about him to say. But why does everyone think I'm an old man? Yelling like I can't hear, helping me down steps and warning me about curbs...who do they think I am?”

“It does not help when you state your need of an afternoon nap.”

“That was just to get them off our backs. I haven't changed since being in...hell...have I?” Steve checked his arms and legs, looked down for any noticeable differences and walked to a mirror hanging in an alcove between rooms, viewing his face from every angle.

“Looks the same to me. What are they seeing, Diana? Who am I?”

“You are a man.”

“Yeah, but I don't know if I look like one.”

“Steve...” Diana softly questioned, turning her full attention towards him; “...what did the Judges rule? What evidence did they have of their verdict?”

Steve took in a deep breath and leaned on the back of an upholstered chaise. “It was pretty rough. They made me go back through my life, re-living a lot of the things I'd done; mostly, the things I least wanted to re-live. Forced me to question my choices, see things that might have been...things I'd let slip away. They were trying to decide if I was worthy of my life.”

“Steve, you are a good man.”

“You'd be surprised how many bad things a good man can do, Diana. After examining almost every choice I've made since I was born, finally those judges must have found something worthwhile because...well, because here I am. They didn't turn me into a mass of gray goo...and they told me I'd need to set right what I'd wronged. That I couldn't be sent to heaven; or back to hell; until the people I've hurt and the opportunities I've missed and the times I'd screwed up...were made right. Which, as far as I can see, is impossible.” Steve looked at Diana with an emptiness she'd never before seen. “They told me to make things right, Diana. But they didn't tell me how.”

“Steve,” Diana began, her brow winkled and fingers rubbing her temples; “I believe I understand. You are a Shade.”

“A what?”

“A Shade. One who is neither of this life, nor another. The Judges, in their wisdom, have provided you the opportunity to remain in this world and resolve those actions which ended badly. To travel your existence addressing mistakes until you earn your position in the Elysian Fields.”

“So I just show up on people's doorsteps and say I'm back to make things right? Wouldn't that be a shock to people who think I'm, you know - _dead_ ?”

“Do not be upset Steve, but as a Shade, you are not as you were.”

“Feels the same to me. Looks like me in the mirror.”

“That is because you and I know you in that manner. To others, you appear differently.”

“Older? How long were we in Hades, anyway?”

“It is not a question of how mankind views time, as continually passing never to reappear; it is the fact that time is immeasurable; life does not end but continues in different forms. There is no ending, only continuance. Your presence is seen by each person in the way they expect; not as the way you were.”

“I'm a ghost?”

“No Steve, do you not understand?”

“I haven't understood anything since that bomber I was flying exploded.”

“Your journey continues within this realm; in the world of man; to correct your mistakes. You have been given a second chance. It is a great privilege, and a great responsibility.”

“OK. Let's just say...you're right. I don't know how I can be me, but not me; and if I'm not me, how do I change the things I did from bad, to good? How do I make things right when some of those people are dead and gone, Diana? I can't snap my fingers and fix everything.” He snapped his fingers, just in case the gods had granted him some magical powers they'd forgotten to mention.

“I do not know. Perhaps to learn how, is a portion of your judgment? Remember, Steve, the words of Athena; _'It will be revealed'_. “

“Yeah, Diana, but it's your Gods and Goddesses that've got me into this mess.”

“Steve,” Diana answered, taking his hands into hers; “Athena also said _'I will be watching over you both'_ .”


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

_Page 9_

_Wednesday May 14th 1923_

**German claims he surrendered to American Indian 'Medicine Man';**

**local hooligan arrested**

_An exclusive to 'the New York Journal '_

Our correspondent in Germany files a colorful human interest story that, if German claims are to be believed, states in the final days of the War the Allies unleashed not only our armies of well-trained and eager troops, but also a tribe of of Indian 'shamans' who worked their magic in the trenches.

On assignment in Munich, one evening visiting a neighborhood bar - or as they're known in Germany, the local 'Biergarten' (and you can be assured, our correspondent was only there on official newspaper business), a few of the male patrons began recalling stories, to the enjoyment of all, of their War-time experiences. For any man who's getting on in years and wants to re-live the highlights of his life, telling stories of the war isn't only for the victors. While reminiscing of heroics and humilities, one man had a particularly interesting tale to tell. This man; let's call him 'Otto'; claimed one day, toward the end of hostilities, his trench was overrun by Allied troops and fearing death over being taken prisoner, he surrendered not to a boy in khaki, but to an Indian in a feathered head-dress!

In the stress of battle some things are not as they may seem. But a German infantryman capitulating to a red savage? An odd story, to say the least. So our reporter decided to inquire a bit further into this man's claims. Over a beer, we are certain. When asking him to fill out his story the German said....oh, we'll just tell you what our reporter told us, and let you figure it out for yourself.

 _Reporter:_ “So, you say at the end of the War you were captured by one of our American Indians?”

 _Otto:_ “Surrendered, not captured. There is a difference! Yah, we were told to 'hold the line' outside of Gheluvelt, a village east of Ypres. This is when we thought the war would continue another six months, a year, two! There had not been any movement along that line in....I forget the last time we were able to move....it was life in the mud, if you consider that life."

"I don't know how the English attacked without artillery, and were able to get past our machine guns, but before we knew it there were dozens, hundreds of them overrunning the trenches. We were caught by surprise and, to be truthful, most of us were tired and fed up. We hadn't had a decent meal, a full nights rest, or a bath and change of clothes in weeks - the men were ready to quit. A few fought back, but most of us knew it was hopeless, threw away our weapons and raised our hands in the air.”

 _Reporter:_ “And that's when you surrendered to a redskin?”

 _Otto:_ “There were so many English – and some French mixed among them – most of us could do little more than set down our weapons and raise our hands, waiting for the next soldier to come over the top and hoping he would see our eyes before we saw his bayonet. But when I looked up at the man in front of me, it wasn't a young British soldier I saw; or any soldier wearing a uniform and carrying a rifle, or even an Englishman – but a bear of a man, very large with sun- darkened skin, dressed in a heavy, black coat - it may have been a blanket - and a hat of the cowboys, with many beads around the band. He wore more beads on his neck, and carried a rifle like those in the stories of the American West. When his eyes met mine – and I will never forget this – he said: _'Do not be foolish. Your war is over.'_ I do not speak the best English, but that, I understood!"

 _Reporter:_ "The Indian - he wore feathers in his hat? Or among his beads were ancient mystical carvings?

 _Otto:_ “That I do not remember. I do not think so. It was possible, there was much smoke and confusion.“

 _Reporter:_ “Then you say he could have worn an Indian head-dress, and recited magical incantations known only to native Medicine Men?

 _Otto:_ “I cannot say he did not....“

 _Reporter:_ “Then we must assume he did. In America, they all do. What happened then?“

 _Otto:_ "He grabbed me by the lapels, like this [the German demonstrated by grabbing his own jacket] and pushed me toward another man, also with darkened skin but much smaller in size and with a mustache, who wore the uniform of the French Colonial, with the small, felt hat. I noticed this was very strange, as we had not seen any others of the Colonial Armies, so why should there be only one? The mustachioed man said, in German almost as good as mine, _'It is finished, my friend. Go home to your family'_. I was then taken as a prisoner of war and saw no more of them. Days later in camp, a newspaper was passed from man to man and when it finally reached me, I read our position had been overtaken only hours before the war had ended. The Indian and his friend saved my life, but in other trenches my comrades were not so fortunate.”

 _Reporter:_ “That is very interesting...but you must admit, you story could easily be seen as a man hoping to impress his friends with tall tales!”

 _Otto:_ “It is all true, I swear it. But if you want to hear of a story made up to impress....”

 _Reporter:_ “Yes, our readers always enjoy a well-told story. The night's still young!”

 _Otto:_ "That morning, the squad of my friend Hans-Peter was sent to rest in the village while we remained on the line. He told me that as our trenches were being over-run – at exactly the same time, I later determined – a woman dressed in armor, carrying sword and shield, burst into the operations post, knocking unconscious or killing many of his squad-mates. When he drew his pistol, she ran straight toward him, the both of them crashing through a window, Hans landing upon his back in the street. The last he remembers was seeing her jump onto the neighboring rooftop and running on her way. He was quickly captured by the English, he tells me, and did not know what happened to her after that, nor did he ever discover who she was. An American Red-Indian in the trenches – that is a good story! But a woman in armour? Impossible. Does Hans-Peter expect that we believe this was the ghost of Joan d'Arc, or the Britannia of England risen from the sea? If so, I ask where were the Valkyries to protect us? It is obviously a made-up tale. Ah, I said to him, that is not the first time a woman has thrown you out of a window!”

In the middle of the evening, describes our correspondent, another bar patron, an ex-soldier and local rabble-rouser identified as Adolphus Hitler, was stirred to anger and began bellowing “German soldiers should never surrender to the English schwine – the world will learn to submit to der Fatherland!” and other fanatical rantings. Disturbing the enjoyment of all, police were summoned, immediately arresting the loudmouth and resulting in comments from the crowd that it wasn't the first time this trouble-maker would see the inside of a jail, nor would be his last.

While our reporter had nothing further to add relating to the evening's events (although his bar-tab expenses will be carefully examined), when this paper contacted officials in Washington, D.C. concerning this remarkable story of native 'Medicine-Men' sent to terrify the Bosche, Government spokesmen had no comment.

As for the armour-clad woman throwing Germans out of windows?....let's just say on that one, Hans may have been a little too clever.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Delayed and overdue trains which businessmen complacently disregarded as a necessity; low-level government officials excused as demonstration of their austerity; and members of the Church frequented because of discounted tickets; was to Isabel's family yet another inconvenience they were expected to endure. Grouped on the station platform, her Mam á and Pap á stood despondently, worrying what would happen to their lives with one less person to perform the bulk of each days work. Her brothers and sister, her husband and their baby loitered pointlessly, having postponed their morning's gossiping and assorted carryings-on yet each from infant to adult protesting loudly over their un-fullfilled needs.

From the window of her railway coach, Isabel waved to her family with far less assurance than she had envisioned. She h ad heard the German people prized honor and intelligence and refinement, little acknowledgment of which she had received in her home; but alongside those qualities, Germany expected compliance and personal duty and above all, unquestioned fealty to the state, none of which, nor in most any other conventions German society had to offer, Isabel had any interest and little knowledge. She would have welcomed the opportunity to continue her studies in Spain; or France; or England or even America, had those opportunities been available; but beyond any differences in people or culture and the thousands of miles that would soon separate her and her home; most important was her journey would deliver her to a land of logic and rational thinking and science.

In Spain, as Church and state relied upon each other, the beliefs of the former often guiding actions of the latter; 'hands clasped', it was unofficially termed although 'conjoined' was more accurate; Germany had taken steps to remove the influence of the Church from public affairs, disregarding objection and anger of Priests and Bishops and even of the Vatican. This separation was even more pronounced at State Universities, their search for factual and scientific enlightenment almost become a religion in itself. Breslau, the one University which had in some unseen way become aware of the overlooked student Isabel Baldomero, had been the home of Dr. Robert Koch and the work he had undertaken, bacteriological studies which established disease-causing microbes found in humans and animals and soil could be chemically modified and adapted to become relatively harmless. While Dr. Koch had been awarded a Nobel Prize in Medicine for work that led to significant progress controlling tuberculosis and had become an expert in the organisms resulting in cholera; anthrax; and other infectious diseases; work was underway to discover if, in the correct formulations, these bacteria could be altered so the same poisons deadly to man and animal could become beneficial, preventing illness in livestock and allowing cows to produce more milk and pigs better meat and ending insect and fungus and rot from destroying farm crops before the plants were harvested.

Much of Spain, Isabel recognized, was little more than rock and barren soil, scarcely able to support life native to the land and impossible to produce enough for an entire human civilization. While over hundreds of years the Spanish Empire had achieved greatness; risen from nothing and at one point Spain was the most prosperous country in the world; those riches were built not solely by the resources of its home, but on what was returned to Spain from far-away lands of mystery and abundance. Spain had never possessed the verdant soil of England or golden hills of France which had for generations provided more than enough food those countries required; or the lush Oriental jungles she had read of, where food fell from trees and rotted because everyone easily had their fill; or even the mystical lands of America, where apple-trees grew freely just because a single man roamed the country tossing seeds. Often, reading of scientific discoveries reported in books far beyond the level of most her age and frustrated with school laboratories primitive and under-equipped for anything beyond basic attempts at teaching the most rudimentary concepts; she had dreamed of one day discovering methods that would allow Spain, as well as other countries where people suffered needlessly, years of health and plenty; increased production of food in every variety and type and medicines which defeat disease; and life could be based more upon hope than despair.

Isabel, only a first-year student, knew she would not study under the direct tutelage of Dr. Koch. In the same post as her notice of University admittance came a letter from the Curriculum of the School of Sciences, approving her syllabus of study and outlining requirements and expectations intended to un-nerve any entering student, which Isabel welcomed as a challenge. Suddenly and unexpectedly, doors had been opened by unseen hands and Isabel could see a brightened future. From her family and home and insignificant village she had been taught to not expect much of life, and even less of herself. She had no presumptions any single discovery, any small scientific advancement she could achieve would alter the world, but she believed whatever little she could add would contribute to the whole. On some days, when she walked aimlessly along a dusty road considering why God had placed her here, rather than a somewhere that held work and opportunity; or when she sat by the river listening to the ripple of water and stirring of leaves; she closed her eyes and day-dreamed of a destiny, at some time in some place, that would permit her to fullfill a purpose only she could fullfill. Then she remembered Mam á's admonishment that no girl with her nose in books would find a good husband; and Papá's preference for Martín or Thomás and general disregard for anything Isabel was interested in; and those dreams fell away.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

“Young Ladies and Gentlemen, look toward the camera.”

To document their admittance into Breslau University, each year a photograph was taken of the entering class, to be framed and hung in a place of prominence, immediately alongside the photographs of classes who had entered years before. In each image rows of students sat or stood with attentive smiles their only allowed expression despite the excitement and expectation each held within; eager youth attempting to appear subdued and scholarly. The earliest photos, dating to the invention of photography and of classes numbering only a handful, every student was male; by the turn of the century young women began to appear, first singularly or in pairs and had grown to eleven for the class of 1908.

Isabel sat in the front row, just right of center, in pastel dress and lace collar; with almond-shaped eyes the color of caramel and hair as dark as cocoa, although in the photos each appeared as just another shade of grey. She was neither beautiful nor plain but pretty enough to allow as many years necessary for a seventeen-year old girl to gain the attention of a reasonable number of suitors, ensuring before she became an old maid at twenty-eight she could marry an acceptable man; or if fortunate, one above her station. Younger than any of the other women entering University, she was shocked that most of her classmates, of both sexes, seemed to have already experienced lives Isabel had assumed reserved for adults: All were five or more years older than she; some of the men had already served their compulsory military duty; and the women, she overheard, had been attending classes as auditors, until recently prohibited from seeking degrees in all but a few basic fields; or studying for the exams that would allow them entrance; the same exams that had been delivered to Isabel's doorstep. She was a girl among men and women, and began to question if by accepting this opportunity, she had over-stepped her abilities. From the first time she'd walked on campus; or even the moment she'd arrived in Germany; Isabel had been identified as a foreigner; an outsider; an other. Through gender and nationality and age and language and almond eyes and dark hair she was sorted as one who does not belong; by her intelligence and expectation and youthfulness, to many she was deemed a threat.

At the rear of the group, in a pose suitable only for pretense and posterity, stood a young man with smirk rather than smile, his eyes slightly closed yet sharply focused. Slighter taller and possibly a bit more handsome; or perhaps that was only a perception due to his clever haircut and crisp suit and condescending expression. In a room of dozens he was the first that would catch everyone's attention, the person most would remember; the leader toward which other boys gather; adults praise; and by those whom he would judge unworthy, fear. The one at the back who clearly belonged and who, as all similar young men of years before, would be known more for what he represented rather than what he accomplished. He stood as if destiny had foreordained whatever he sought; although in a posed photograph alongside other men of same age and similar appearance, an image lacking definition, none could be identified as uniquely different nor indefinably the same. In every class photo hung in a place of prominence, there was always the young man at the back.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Announced only once and presumed thereafter, while attending classes all female students were required to sit in the furthest back rows, often physically removed by partitions and separate entry-ways; were expected not to question, comment upon, or seek clarification of any lectures and to approach Professors only if asked; and generally, the women were preferred to remain unseen and unnoticed; if women must attend University at all. As well as Isabel could determine each of her class-mates were either German; Prussian; Austrian; and perhaps one Pole but together, their attitude toward Isabel was more tolerance than acceptance. While it was unavoidable that every woman must live in the same section of student housing and were required to eat together in a small, designated area of the commissary and share bath and toilet while surrendering privacy; Isabel had hoped in time she could become friends with at least a few of these women. But as the others quickly entwined into pairs and triplets, all ten converging and mixing as an extended family, they more frequently than not excluded the girl who spoke differently and wore peculiar, provincial clothes and picked at the hearty, German food and who, clearly, was not of them, but was an _other_ .

But Isabel had not journeyed so far nor given up all that was familiar; even allowing her name to be stripped away, replaced with one unknown and foreign and with it having lost a portion of herself; to make friends. She devoted herself to her studies, within the first weeks nearly overwhelmed not by assigned work and Professorial demands but by the world of knowledge and opportunity to which she was, unbelievably, a part. To have worked with the miserable and worn equipment of her senior academy, she thought, was now an embarrassment; any awards she received would have been more relevant for what little information she had managed to glean from the schools out-dated and dusty library rather than any experiments she had designed or formulas calculated. As a first-year Isabel understood what she achieved in those first months could define the pathways of her entire academic career and with few other responsibilities or engagements to distract, she concentrated on assigned work, paying little attention to the social aspects of University life which to most students became irresistible. By mid-term Isabel knew and was recognized by most of the academic and general staff of the School of Sciences and strangely had begun receiving encouragement and direction and allowances often reserved for those in their third- and fourth-years. She assumed this was due to her dedication and eagerness and possibly, her availability, often the last to leave laboratory and lecture-hall and seldom without books and research journals in her hands, her mind forming questions waiting to be answered.

Breslau, the entering class was strongly advised, prohibited any association between the genders outside of supervised and chaperoned events, which were few. Men and women attended detached laboratories; engaged in physical fitness classes in separate Gymnasiums; women were forbidden to leave campus; and in the few instances where both must share a single resource, were kept apart by physical partition or psychological supervision. Yet beyond rule and propriety, young men and women determined to meet found ways for that determination to succeed. Stolen moments in hallways between classes; planned or unplanned dalliances among library shelves; and within the Social Clubs, traditional to University life and a German compulsion, were opportunities for men and women to participate in profound or playful discussions; stand alongside one another, perhaps a bit too closely, while engaged in serious pursuits important to their future, whatever those pursuits may be; and through involvement in any number of organizations, each could begin to learn an appropriate amount about the opposite sex that would invigorate interest in learning more; as much as the club Matrons; Wardens; and academic advisors would allow.

Isabel knew she was no beauty and had little to offer, physically, of what men seemed to want. She remembered, also, the many times Mam á had reminded her the attractiveness God grants most young women fades quickly; and lectures by the Nuns who had taught her the blessings of not having to bear the weight of beauty that would arise in men sinful thoughts; thoughts for some reason Isabel would then be responsible. When a boy she had known since childhood became afraid to set off on his own and offered to marry her, one day when they were old if he hadn't found someone before with larger eyes and prettier smile and curls natural or not; she knew that she would be no one's first choice. In the mirror she saw her thin, shapeless hair and indistinct features and slight body and despite her smile perhaps too inviting, too trusting; realized to encourage any suitor would soon become embarrassing and potentially lead a man into Hell. Not that Isabel had the time or interest to experiment with such relationships, if only to better understand their appeal. She had seen what happened to her sister, and while the two of them couldn't be easily compared, intellectually or socially, she remained as warning that it was the unremarkable path that began with romance.

Yet despite her inattentions and discipline, one boy, beginning into the second half of her first year, seemed to take great interest in Isabel and her activities. She knew him only by sight, in each classroom his established chair toward the side, near the front; not in the foremost rows where he, accompanied by his friends, could be easily seen and called upon by the Professor yet near enough to be admired for a perceived attentiveness to the lecturer's every word. Although never alone, even when surrounded by flatterers and fawners his general aimlessness and un-focused confidence made him appear as if he, also, didn't belong. Perhaps he recognized Isabel as another out of place and only sought her out on the mis-directed assumption of shared commonality; he may have seen in her another who fit only uncomfortably, even as Isabel realized with his blonde hair and collegiate clothing and blue-grey eyes; he belonged all too well.

Without interruption first-year flowed into second, second became almost indefinable to third, and third soon became fourth, as during Summer Sessions most students were required to complete deficiencies or compelled into advanced course-work. When fourth-year classes began following the Summer Holiday; the weeks when Isabel had visited home far too long and the days she had been at school, undertaking independent research by special dispensation, far too short; Autumn 1911 held only promise. She had been engaged as a laboratory assistant, one of the few jobs open to women although consisting of little other than washing bottles; cleaning cabinets; and arranging paperwork. With the few Marks she earned she purchased clothing in the German style, far more unromantic than the frilled and feminine Spanish and French fashions; had her hair styled so that, when pulled into a bun it sat close and confined and would neither be hazard nor attraction; and by diligent work; encouragement of her instructors; and that unseen hand which had, since she'd received her first letter inviting her to Breslau, somehow furthered her way; been assigned to Dr. Eduard Buchner as her Principal Director of her Curricula.

“It is not fair, Professor” Isabel stated, scarcely looking up from her work, the older man with short-cropped, white hair nodding in agreement or at least acknowledgment as he scratched formulas on a chalkboard; “This 'Rutherford' of Manchester is not a Chemist. How can the Noble administrators award him the prize, when there are so many of us developing new formulas and uncovering molecular truths? Let him make discoveries in Physics, and award him that prize, if they must. But not our prize in Chemistry!”

“Us? Our?” Dr. Buchner replied, stepping aside to look over his work. “Only now beginning your research requirements, and you consider yourself a chemist, _Fräulein_ Maru? It was not until I had published my first paper, with assistance of my brother, that I began to consider my work held any merit. Perhaps you should be the instructor, and I should be the pupil!” he smirked.

“I intend no disrespect, Professor” Isabel replied, setting aside the notebooks she had been amending by the inclusion of some recent additions provided by the Professor. “There is only one Nobel award each year, and to grant that to a Physicist, even if his work involves chemical processes, seems unfair. One day, if I should be recognized for anything I have created, it will be for the work I have devoted my life; not for a a small process of a larger discovery.”

“As scientists, awards and achievements are not our goal, _Fräulein_ ; we seek the truth, in whatever field that may be found. In the minds of the public, Science has been partitioned into separate disciplines, each exclusive of the other. However we could not begin to explore Physics without Chemistry, nor Chemistry without Mathematics, nor Biology without Physics. In the world one does not find these things disordered, but connected into a whole. Do not envy those who have been recognized for any work that contributes to the whole, but look upon each contribution as a small part of a greater understanding.”

“Yes, Professor. I intended no disrespect, toward you, or Dr. Rutherford. Breslau, and the scientific community, have provided me with opportunities I would have never hoped.”

“You are a talented student, Isabel, with a bright future. But you mist keep this in mind” he continued, taking a seat behind his desk, across from the table where his student was working; “You spoke of 'creation', as if scientists are gods. While science has made discoveries that are wondrous and I'm certain this new century will see what could be considered miracles; it is all too easy for those of us with understanding of the basic truths to also construct horrors beyond the imagination of all the beings of Hell. We hold great responsibility, _Fräulein_ Maru.”

“My only wish, Professor, is that one day no one will go without food, and land suited to farming does not lay barren and dead, fit for no man. I only wish for mankind to get what it deserves. If it's what I hope...it will be wonderful.”

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Standing patiently outside the door of Dr. Buchner's office, simply a student awaiting an appointment, a young man with steel-eyes and tailored clothes listened intently to the conversation within, words of the girl and the aged Professor cascading over the angled transom. As class-mates, instructors, and school staff passed, many nodded, or smiled, or acknowledged the student's presence just as they hoped to receive acknowledgment in return. Everyone knew him; he was the young man who stood at the back of the class photo.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

“And this, Fräulein Maru, will be your laboratory space.”

Isabel peered past the doorway, the men on either side of her stepping back to allow a bit more light. The room, not more than twelve feet wide and a little more than half that deep, was less laboratory than storage and in fact may have recently been used for that purpose. Directly across from the door a small window looking into a shaded courtyard allowed, a few hours of the day, what limited amount of natural light the courtyard would share. Along the left wall a chalk-board had been placed; to the right, another door opened onto a small closet, its walls fitted with shelving for files or a sampling of chemicals or, for one person, a bit of privacy; and centered in the room, leaving little space for anything else, a laboratory table had been fit, complete with gas and water and stepped at the far end, a slightly lowered space intended as a desk. The walls remained painted in faded greenish-grey; a desk lamp and three bare light-bulbs, suspended by a wire in the ceiling, provided the only reliable illumination. The room smelled of cleaning alcohol and mop-water and age; a minimal room of negligible means expecting inconsequential work; a space designed more as a test for its occupant than basis for success. Isabel surveyed the first room she had ever been granted as hers, alone; and it became a grand entryway into far greater worlds.

“This is for my use, only, Herr Blitz?”

“Yes, Fräulein; for now.” Middle-aged and balding, dressed in a understated three-piece suit, the man could have been largely un-noticiable among any collection of professors or doctors or businessmen and not as an expert on Organic and Inorganic Chemistry with specialized interest in reactive toxicity. “You are expected to be settled and accustomed to your workspace before this first week of Term has ended. You have received your designation of curriculum, explaining the exercises you are required to fulfill. You are not to follow the standard coursework, but the curriculum prepared that will best utilize your strengths and address your weaknesses. I shall be your advisor, assisted by Herr Stolzenberg.”

“But I have been working for Dr. Buchner...” Isabel questioned. “As his Laboratory Assistant, and the past two summers, amending transcripts and documents into his notebooks. Is he no longer my Principal Director? Professor Buchner's knowledge of Botany and bio-chemical processes...his Prize for the discovery of enzymatic structures...is far more fitting to my interests in agricultural chemistry than your expertise in vapors and oxidizing agents, Herr Blitz. I intend no disrespect.”

“Do not be concerned, Fräulein Maru; you shall remain under the guidance of Herr Buchner. In fact, he participated in recommending you for this program of special studies. Dr. Stolzenberg and I”, the older man indicated his companion, easily half his age, “have only just arrived at your school. Perhaps it is the intention of Dr. Buchner that we all learn together!” he smiled a bit too assuredly.

“Then I am not to complete my Chemistry program along with my class-mates?”

“You will, and more; if you are up to the task. Your program includes every lecture and laboratory, in addition to other, specialized course-work that has been determined by the strengths and abilities you have demonstrated in your first three years; your talents are best served by special instruction. Of course, with your additional responsibilities, you will no longer have time to serve as Laboratory Assistant...”

“A small stipend has been arranged, to cover any expenses typical to a student of your level” Dr. Stolzenbereg announced, momentarily stepping beyond the shadow.

“...You understand this will require significantly more work than what is expected of the average student. If you do not believe you can fulfill our expectations....”

“I am not afraid of work, Herr Buchner” Isabel replied without hesitation; while in her mind, questioning why she, who was not even German, would be placed in such a position which she hadn't yet decided was advantageous; and if so, was any advantage to her, or toward someone else? “But who is this that has selected me for this honor? There are others, certainly, who have shown more promise, who, by their families and position would be more suitable.”

“Only what is for the best has been considered, Fräulein.”

“This has been decided in  my  best interests?”

“Yours; the advancement of science; the honor of Breslau; and the good of Germany. The privilege is not yours to question; only to accept the opportunities you have been offered” Herr Blitz concluded, leaving little suggestion he anticipated, or would accept, a reply.

“And opportunity to prove your selection was not a mistake” Dr. Stolzenberg added, turning to follow his associate into the hallway.

<<<<<<>>>>>>

Within the month, Professor Eduard Buchner was gone, and Isabel Maru, absorbed in course-work and exercises and completing experiments she didn't fully understand but was resolved to confirm, had only a few moments to wish him good-bye and thank him for his encouragement. The official notification, posted to announcement-boards and repeated, possibly a bit too easily by Professors and staff, was that Dr. Buchner had received an extraordinary invitation to teach at Würzburg which, due to the distinctions that University had achieved in medical studies and its reputation in research within the natural sciences and with Röntgen's recent discovery, Isabel had every reason to believe her mentor had been conferred a great honor; however it was strange that he would depart weeks into the new term.

“Dr. Blitz, you asked that I report?” Isabel stated, standing in the doorway to the Professor's office. She had found the note tacked to her door, the Wednesday of the same week Dr. Buchner had departed.

“Yes, come in and have a seat, Isabel” Dr. Blitz replied, looking up from his desk, his face bearing the same un-nerving smile Isabel had come to distrust for no specific reason.

“Perhaps you've wondered now that Dr. Buchner has moved onto greater responsibilities and, certainly, acclaim, who you shall report to as your Principal Director?”

“These past weeks I've been far too busy to speak with Dr. Buchner more than a few moments, Professor, and he was assured I can proceed with minimal oversight. With the tasks set out for me, and as Dr. Buchner discussed with the Advisement Committee, the need for a Director of my Curriculum seems un-necessary.”

“Logical minds would think so, but in the bureaucracy, logic is often lost” he laughed; again, far more familiarly than their current association warranted. “Usually such instances are decided by agreement of the Committee; but knowing how important it is, for a student of your level to have someone who she may turn to with questions or for advice; I have offered to fill that position.”

“Thank you, Professor” Isabel answered, although thanks were not what she wanted to express. “Then, in addition to submitting my work to you, as my Advisor, for review; before presenting it for final approval to my Director; you shall perform both functions?”

“Again, Isabel, scientific logic has been preceded by bureaucratic procedure. With the departure of Professor Buchner, I have had to take over many of his lectures and, I regret, other duties which conflict with the time I could devote to individual students. While I shall be your Principal Director, and hopefully provide the same level of support and encouragement as you received from Professor Buchner, Dr. Stolzenberg will serve as Advisor, and is eager to work closely with you toward achieving your degree; entering into advanced studies; and on any special projects which will further your career.”

“Thank you, Professor. But Dr. Buchner felt I was able to work on my own; following the curricula set out for me...?”

“Dr. Stlozenberg is young with a promising future and many innovative ideas; as are you. Professor Buchner is of an different generation and, for Germany to progress, it is time for new thinking. I must insist, Fräulein Maru, as your Principal Director, you follow my recommendations. In fact”, he glanced at the clock sitting at the edge of his desk, “Dr. Stolzenberg asked if you had the opportunity to meet with him this afternoon, to discuss progress of your recent work. I believe he has some suggestions you may want to incorporate, based upon recent journal articles. You may go” he smiled. “Please close the door behind you.”

“Thank you, Professor” Isabel answered, collecting the books and files she had placed on a table and securely closing the door until she heard the lock click into position, as she had been instructed. Striding down the hallway, she was uncertain how this change of supervision would effect her work; her only hope that in their new association Dr. Stolzenberg would continue to be as disinterested in her studies as he had in the past weeks been to most things academic; that whatever had occupied his attentions continue to do so and she may continue her work without interruption.


End file.
